Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Quotes

Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

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The swallow is come! The swallow is come! O, fair are the seasons, and light Are the days that she brings, With her dusky wings, And her bosom snowy white!

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The Laws of Nature are just, but terrible. There is no weak mercy in them. Cause and consequence are inseparable and inevitable.

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Let the dead Past bury its dead!

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The world loves a spice of wickedness.

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The soul never grows old.

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The grave itself is but a covered bridge, Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness!

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Resolve and thou art free.

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Death is better than disease.

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No literature is complete until the language it was written in is dead.

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The young may die, but the old must!

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This will be a great day in our history; the date of a New Revolution - quite as much needed as the old one. Even now as I write they are leading old John Brown to execution in Virginia for attempting to rescue slaves! This is sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind which will come soon!

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It has done me good to be somewhat parched by the heat and drenched by the rain of life.

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To-day, to-morrow, every day, to thousands the end of the world is close at hand. And why should we fear it? We walk here, as it were, in the crypts of life; at times, from the great cathedral above us, we can hear the organ and the chanting choir; we see the light stream through the open door, when some friend goes up before us; and shall we fear to mount the narrow staircase of the grave that leads us out of this uncertain twilight into life eternal?

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Ah! What would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before.

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Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.

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Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

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The twilight that surrounds the border-land of old romance.

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For bells are the voice of the church; They have tones that touch and search The hearts of young and old.

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The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind in never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.

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